


Bound Together

by triedunture



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Action/Adventure, Frenemies, Gen, Handcuffed Together, Huddling For Warmth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 02:44:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7024018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Burr and Hamilton are captured by British scouts and shackled together, but manage to escape. They can perhaps survive in the wilderness for a day. If they can work together for a few moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bound Together

The wilds of New York were no place for a gentleman, Col. Aaron Burr felt, and he would be very pleased to leave them as soon as Greene's letter was conveyed to General Washington and his task, discharged. His horse, a dappled grey called Inky (named, perhaps, by the very young stableboy who fed the beast sugar cubes that should be saved for the officers' breakfasts) seemed to agree, and moved at a very brisk pace down the tree-lined track, large eyes rolling at the woods that pressed in on either side. Burr patted the animal's tense neck in the spirit of comradeship, saying, "Nearly there, good fellow. You'll be back in your stall before you know it." He had no way of knowing, of course, that this was a lie. 

A shape on horseback appeared ahead of them, emerging from a bend in the lane in the shadow of a great stand of oaks. Burr stood in his stirrups in an attempt to make out the color of the rider's coat but it was too difficult. His fingers felt for his saddle pistol, closing firmly around it should it be needed. 

"Are you going to Babylon?" he called, employing the challenge that had been furnished before he was sent on his task as messenger. 

"No, to the Vatican," came the proper response, and Burr relaxed. As the rider came further down the lane, Burr saw that the coat was a nondescript brown, much like his own heather grey, the better to travel without attracting notice. And the face under the dusty hat was a familiar one. Burr stifled a groan even as that face lit up in its own recognition. "Mr. Burr! What are you doing here, so far from your post?" 

"Dispatching a message, _Colonel_ Hamilton," he said. "And yourself? What has called you away from the General's side?" There was barely a hint of a sneer in his words, not an easy feat when Hamilton had so cleverly robbed him of that position as Washington's chief aide. True cunning, to pretend he had never wanted to job in the first place!

Now Hamilton was near enough that Burr could see the scoff twisting his lips. "His Excellency can do without his glorified journaler for one day." He extended a hand in greeting now that his horse drew alongside Burr's, and Burr stared down at it for a long moment. Hamilton's fingers were dirty, their nails caked in ink and other filth, but Burr accepted the handshake as courtesy demanded. Hamilton continued, "I am to meet with a farmer who owns property close by, and who has agreed to deliver a message of my own to Hercules Mulligan, who remains downtown, as I'm sure you know."

"Ah, yes." Burr nodded and glanced over his shoulder. Though the lane remained empty but for the two of them, the less said about spycraft, the better, was his feeling. One could not let slip what one was not privy to, and so Burr avoided the topic whenever possible. "Well, I wish you an uneventful journey, Hamilton," he said, and kicked his horse forward a few steps. 

Hamilton smoothly guided his own horse into Inky's path, stopping their progress. "Should we not travel together?" he asked. "Redcoat scouts have been reported to the west, I've heard. We might seek safety in numbers."

"I'm afraid that would be impossible." Burr nodded to the road ahead. "I am to meet the General at his headquarters. You are bound in the opposite direction."

Hamilton shrugged. "You might come with me to see this farmer first; it is only a short distance. Then we could return to camp as a pair."

Burr smiled gently even as his blood boiled at the thought of riding for hours alongside Hamilton, who would most likely spend the entire time chattering away without pause for breath. The man would be his last choice for traveling companion if he were to need one, which he most certainly did not. 

"I am sorry, Alexander, but this message cannot wait. I must deliver it with all due speed." Those orders had not been explicit, perhaps, but Burr thought them very much implied. 

Hamilton's face fell. How exhausting, Burr thought, to wear one's heart upon one's sleeve every moment. It explained the circles under his eyes. "I see. May you arrive safely, then," Hamilton said, and walked his horse aside.

"And you. Farewell." Burr gave a small nod and bade Inky forward with a click of his tongue. The horse obliged, and Burr rode ahead past the curve in the lane until he could no longer see Hamilton over his shoulder. Only then did he breathe a sigh of relief and murmur to his horse, "A close one." 

The horse snorted and Burr, momentarily distracted with mirth at the noise, was late in seeing the passel of riders standing before him following yet another bend in the road. It was only their cries of "Halt!" that caused him to stop and see them. 

All six of them wore red coats. 

"State your business," said the foremost soldier, who sat atop a white horse. 

Burr offered a smooth smile. He hoped his brow showed not an ounce of the terror in his chest, but he was adept at such concealment and thought it likely he could talk his way to freedom in this case. 

"My name is Johnson, and I am a farmer. I am going to visit a neighbor of mine who lives some miles away, past the river."

"What is your neighbor's name?"

"Whitstone," Burr said. 

"And what do you grow, farmer?"

"Mostly wheat. Some beans." 

"And you own the tract down there?" The soldier pointed in the direction Hamilton was traveling. 

"Oh yes," Burr said. "A pretty piece of land."

"I know. We've seen it," said the redcoat. "And it was not owned by a man named Johnson."

Not an inch of Burr's smile gave way. "Perhaps you are thinking of the farm next to mine," he said. "They are very close in size and breadth."

"Perhaps. Tell me, who owns that farm then?" the soldier asked. 

Burr tipped his head as if in thought. His saddle pistol lay just out of reach under his coat tail, and he dared not make a move for it in such close quarters. "The name escapes me. The family, they are quite recently arrived and I have not yet—" 

"Dismount," the soldier barked. "We will need to search you."

Greene's letter to General Washington, sealed with his own insignia, weighed heavily in Burr's pocket, but he affected a nonchalant nod as if the order was a mere suggestion, and one with which he agreed. 

"Certainly even the most loyal citizens must endure these small inconveniences for the greater good," he said, and made as if to slowly unhook his boot from a stirrup. "I'm sure we can clear this all up in—" And with a hard jerk of his horse's reins, he whirled around and spurred Inky into the fastest gallop the beast could muster. 

The redcoats shouted after him and gave chase, their horses' hooves pounding along the packed dirt of the road right behind Burr. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a pistol raised. He ducked low as the bullet whizzed over his head. Inky picked up some speed. 

Burr barrelled down the lane and rounded a bend to find Hamilton astride his horse, turned toward the commotion with a puzzled expression on his face. "Burr?" he called.

"Scouts!" Burr shouted back, and Hamilton's eyes widened as he surely saw the six that pursued him. He reined his horse about and joined Burr in his escape, coming abreast of him just as he raced by.

"I _told_ you we should travel together!" Hamilton cried above the whistle of the wind as they rode hard. "If you had agreed, this would have never—!"

"Save your words!" Burr growled. "You can berate me when we've lost them!"

Another gunshot burst above their heads, and they veered wildly to avoid being hit. 

"How will we do that?" Hamilton said as they rejoined. "Continue down this road and hope they tire of us?" 

"I don't know! Just—" 

Burr's horse caught its hoof on a fallen branch that lay unnoticed in the dirt, and the animal fell with a horrifying squeal of pain. Burr had just enough time to free himself from the stirrups as he went down, managing to roll free from Inky's bulk. 

"Burr!" Hamilton spun his horse around and, like an absolute fool, dismounted to assist in dragging Burr to his feet. "Are you—?" 

In the blink of an eye, they were surrounded by redcoats, pistols pointed at their hearts. 

"Hands," the soldier who had questioned Burr earlier said with a sort of bland disinterest, as if he were not out of breath after riding so hard. But Burr saw the sweat upon the man's brow, and heard the hitch in his throat. 

Burr raised his hands to the sky and, after a sharp look, Hamilton did as well. Their riderless horses trotted off to nibble at some bushes, and one of the soldiers collected their reins. Two others rifled through their coats and discovered their sealed letters. These were taken away and stuffed into their leader's saddlebag alongside some other papers wrapped in oilskin.

The insignias on their letters left no doubt as to their identity as members of Washington's forces. There was some debate amongst the British men what they should do now that they'd captured two Continentals, and it was during this argument that Hamilton whispered to Burr from the corner of his mouth, "Please tell me your message is encoded."

"It is," Burr returned. "Yours?"

"Of course. I wrote the cipher myself." 

Burr fought the urge to roll his eyes. Here they were, minutes from a bullet in their heads at the hands of the enemy and Hamilton wanted to _brag_. 

The debate ended with one voice rising above the others. "We will bring them back to camp to be dealt with," said the redcoat who appeared to be the highest rank. "Shackle them."

"Sir, I'm afraid I only have the one set of manacles," the other said, and produced the thing from his saddlebag: two crude circles of iron currently hinged open, connected by a short chain of six heavy iron links. Burr nearly laughed; so this contingent was just as ill-equipped as their own. That was just perfect.

The officer huffed. "Then you will have to shackle them together. You!" He turned to stare down at Burr and Hamilton with a scowl on his face. "Are either of you the sort that uses the left hand more often than the right?" His tone seemed to imply that they looked the part.

Hamilton chose that moment to spit upon the ground. "As if I would ever tell the likes of—"

"No, neither of us do," Burr said in a tired voice. 

The redcoat nodded to his men. "Restrain their right hands, then. Be quick about it."

Hamilton snapped his head to the side to regard Burr with a heated glare. "Why do you answer their questions? I do not intend to make my imprisonment easy for them."

"I intend to survive said imprisonment," Burr retorted. "Now be quiet. If you can manage such a miracle."

Their hands were indeed cuffed, and Burr stifled his wince as the rough iron bit against the soft inside of his wrist. The soldier turned his screw-key and pocketed the thing with military efficiency, testing the bonds to ensure they held. Hamilton snarled at him as he worked: "A good thing you did not meet three of us on the road."

"It is not much bother to shoot one of you filthy colonists if needs be," the redcoat replied. He towered over Hamilton, who was not very tall to begin with, and stabbed at his chest with the tip of a well-manicured finger. "I still might if you give me a reason." 

"Gentlemen—" Burr took a single step forward with the intention of placing himself between the two, but Hamilton moved as quick as a snake: reaching forward with his free left hand, grabbing the sloppily put-away pistol from beneath that red coat, and cocking it without pause. 

"Here's your reason," he said, and fired point-blank into the man's chest. 

Burr leapt backwards at the sound of the gunshot and for a long, buzzing moment, time seemed to stand still. Then the soldier fell to the ground. Two of his compatriots knelt beside their fallen brother, dazed and groping for a heartbeat. The others reached for their own weapons in a confused fumble. Hamilton lowered the pistol, frozen and staring at the body in the dirt. Burr was the first to properly act: he grabbed the length of chain that connected them in his right fist and jerked Hamilton backward. 

"Move!" he cried, and succeeded in dragging Hamilton into the forest, away from their enemies. Musket balls followed, peppering the trees and plants all around them, and Burr could only run as fast as his legs would carry him and pray that Hamilton kept pace. 

It was by the grace of Providence that Burr spied a cluster of small caves carved into the moss-spattered rocks that rose above them, and it was into one of these that he guided Hamilton, levering him up the steep embankment and into the protective darkness. They lay there, close and panting and trying not to be or do either, while the shouts and crashing hoofbeats of the British neared, passed, then finally faded away into the distance.

"That was lucky," Burr whispered when at last he deemed it safe to do so. "Come. We must—" His hand found Hamilton's shoulder in the dark of the cavern, and he perceived that it was shaking uncontrollably. "Alexander, have you been hit?" he asked. 

Hamilton shook his head, his wild hair brushing against Burr's cheek. "N-no, I am uninjured," he said. His voice quaked as Burr had never heard it do before.

"We are safe for now," Burr said, in case Hamilton did not understand their situation. "The scouts have passed us by."

"Dead," Hamilton bit out. "That boy. He's dead. I've shot him." 

Boy? Burr blinked at that. It took a moment to understand that Hamilton referred to the redcoat he'd just dispatched. Yes, perhaps the soldier had been a few years younger than they were; it was difficult to tell with the British. They grew them so _soft_ , like unbaked dough.

"Hamilton," Burr said, "is this the first man you've killed?"

Hamilton did not answer, and it fell to Burr to remove the empty pistol from that trembling hand. 

"It was a rash and foolish act," he murmured, tucking the pistol into his own belt, "but you probably saved our lives with it. Alexander. Look at me."

Hamilton's dark eyes caught the little bit of light that streamed into their cave as he gazed upon Burr's face. "Yes?"

"This is war," Burr reminded him. "Men die. Some by our own hands."

Hamilton swallowed. "Have you killed before?" he asked.

"Of course. Several times," Burr lied. He dared not tell Hamilton how dull his own service had been until this very day: the drudgery of his minor role. Better to have Hamilton think that this was all very usual so that he might recover from his shock. 

"I dreamed of battle," Hamilton spoke low, in a bare whisper, "but it felt very different than I'd imagined, to watch that boy's eyes grow dim after I pulled the trigger. One moment he was here, and the next he was an empty shell." He looked away, down at their chained wrists. "Do they weigh heavily upon your soul, these deaths?"

Burr clutched at Hamilton's shoulder as if to impart some measure of strength into his body. He needed the man to be well if they were to survive this ordeal. "You will find the burden diminishes with each passing day, I promise you." Another lie (for how would Burr know?) but a necessary one. "Now, are you able to climb down with me so that we might go home?"

Hamilton huffed a laugh and raised his right fist, which caused Burr's hand to jerk into the air with it, attached as they were. "I suppose I must."

They carefully picked their way downhill and found their bearings. Hamilton seemed pale still, but more steady, and Burr deemed him fit to travel. He shaded his eyes with his hand and looked to the west. 

"I don't think they'll have been foolish enough to leave our horses on the road, and at any rate we'd never be able to ride without attracting some notice with these." He jingled the chain of their shackles between them. He did not say what he really thought: that doubling back to see if they might find their horses would mean confronting the dead body, which he did not think wise given Hamilton's state. He motioned through the trees. "Therefore we should set out in this direction on foot, keeping to the woods and bowers so as to not—" 

"We should follow the scouts," Hamilton said, nodding to the east. 

Burr stared at him a moment before barking out a laugh. "Are you mad? Why should we follow the enemy? Safety is _this_ way." He pointed in the opposite direction.

Hamilton pointed, just as stubbornly, in his preferred direction. "They'll soon give up the chase for us and return to their own headquarters. They have our messages—"

"Which are encoded!"

"And which their codebreakers will no doubt be very pleased to have in hand. Furthermore, I saw some papers in that one scout's bag, probably some very valuable intelligence. If we could steal that and our own documents back from the redcoats—" 

"Are you listening to yourself, Hamilton?" Burr cried. "There are two of us against the five of them, and we are chained together," he rattled his fist, "and have but the one gun between us with no shot or powder to speak of! And you expect us to dash back into the fray for a few pieces of paper?"

"I do not know the contents of your message," Hamilton said, "but if the British parse the meaning of mine, Mulligan will be in danger."

Burr stuck a finger in the air. "Did you not write the cipher yourself? Do you not trust it to do its job?"

A dark look overcame Hamilton's face. "I trust myself to do my job, which is to confound the enemy at every possible opportunity! We need their documents. As well as ours."

Burr crossed his arms over his chest, necessitating Hamilton's own arm to jerk out and hang between them. "One dead redcoat and you've lost your mind," he sighed. 

"That is not so!" Hamilton's face, as he knew it would, flamed crimson. "I only insist we take advantage of this rare chance. It is what His Excellency would want us to do." 

"General Washington would never be so foolish as to—" Burr stopped. Took a long, deep breath of piney air. Held up his palms in peace. "We are wasting time arguing in circles like this. We should start walking, for we have a long journey ahead of us." 

"Yes, in _this_ direction," Hamilton said, indicating the east. 

"Hamilton, we are bound together. As much as I'd be glad to let you go your way and I, mine, we must agree. You cannot act the tyrant. The situation calls for democracy." 

Hamilton shifted uneasily in his riding boots, his face showing how he disliked being compared to a monarch. "If neither of us will yield, or rather, if _you_ will not listen to sense," he said, "we should draw straws."

"Agreed." Burr stooped to pluck a few blades of grass from the dirt, a motion which forced Hamilton to also bend. He gave an annoyed grunt at this, but Burr ignored him as he straightened and presented the tips of the greenery in his clutched fist. "Choose yours," he said.

Hamilton took one, and Burr picked another, and they examined their respective grasses in length, their heads bent close together as they gazed at their open palms.

"I win," Hamilton said, for it was readily apparent whose blade of grass was longest.

Disgusted with his lot, Burr brushed his hands together to scatter all the leaves of grass back to the ground where they might wither, much like his look. "I do not know what sort of God would allow this game of chance to go so awry," he said, "for surely you are leading us to our doom, and if I thought that sitting myself upon a log and refusing to move would stop you, I would. But as I do not wish to be dragged bodily upon the forest floor for some distance—" 

"Complaining will gain you nothing. You lost in a fair contest. Come, we go east." Hamilton tugged him along in that direction, and Burr went, making only the lowest murmurs of complaint under his breath. 

It proved quite simple to track the movements of the scouts who had pursued them. Their horses had left behind many clear prints in the soft, black earth and snapped branches besides. Hamilton led the way, cautioning Burr to step carefully and keep his ears open for any sounds of the redcoats. For a matter of an hour or so, there was nothing to hear except their own breaths and birdsong. The trek through the forest might have been very pleasant, in fact, given the mildness of the weather and the general flatness of the path. Yet they had no food or water, and it had been hours since breakfast, and so Burr's stomach began speaking its own mind. Hamilton glared at him over his shoulder after the third or so gurgle. 

"Would you be so kind as to silence yourself?" he hissed.

"A fine thing to ask a man!" Burr returned. "Next you'll beg me to keep my bones from creaking, or my feet from making any noise on the ground, or any other number of things over which I have no control. I have half a mind to—"

Hamilton raised his hand for silence, and Burr grudgingly gave it, and only then because he recognized the distant sound that Hamilton must have heard: the faint rise and fall of British voices and the wickers of horses. Burr looked knowingly at his companion and, after sharing a nod of truce, they crept forward through the brush with extreme care. 

The remaining five redcoats appeared to be watering their horses in a small clearing hard by a trickling stream. Burr spotted Inky and Hamilton's own wayward mount among their numbers, their bridles lashed together with a length of rope. How sad, he thought, that they should share their riders' fate. From what snatches of conversation Burr could catch, it seemed the damn lobsters were discussing the merits of going back to bury their fallen comrade's body, and exactly how they would present their report to their commander.

Hamilton bent low to the ground, forcing Burr to follow so that their short length of chain did not clink and give away their presence, and he plucked a small stone from the ground. They straightened, and Hamilton glanced about as if to gauge the distance between the knot of soldiers and a stand of bushes some yards away. He pitched the rock in that direction, causing a loud rustle to echo through the woods. Five British heads turned toward the sound.

"Pinchley," said their leader, "stay here with the horses." And at the man's commanding gesture, the rest of the redcoats (minus Pinchley, of course) headed into the brush in an orderly, ridiculous line, arms at the ready.

"Now," Hamilton hissed, and surged forward, causing Burr to lurch along behind him. They crept along behind the trees and bushes until they were very near the commander's horse and its bulging saddlebags. Pinchley, for all the good he did, stood on his tiptoes and craned his neck to get a better look in the direction his compatriots had gone. 

As Hamilton was fairly vibrating with excitement, Burr thought it best if he—the more calm, collected of the two—were to make the actual theft. He communicated this to his companion in silence with a universal gesture: his finger stabbing himself in the middle of his chest, his eyes on the saddlebag that was their target. Hamilton, for once, had the wherewithal to agree to reason, and he allowed Burr to take point as they moved with all due stealth out of the bushes and toward the horse. 

Horses, on the whole, seemed to like Burr and this Loyalist one was no exception. It flicked its ears at him but did not whinny nor paw the ground; the animal only lifted its large, liquid eye at him and waited patiently while he approached. It was the simplest thing in the world for Burr to slip his slim hand into the bag and remove its contents: their two sealed letters and a sheaf of papers in oilskin. Burr looked at Hamilton, triumphant. Hamilton nodded with great eagerness. Their good man Pinchley was still facing the opposite way, oblivious to their presence. 

Burr and Hamilton locked eyes and together, as one, took a small step backward toward the wood. 

Both their boots landed on an inordinately dry twig, which snapped as loud as a gunshot.

"Shit," Burr whispered just as old Pinchley whirled around with his rifle aloft. 

"Halt!" he shouted, an order which neither Burr nor Hamilton seemed obliged to follow. They turned and ran, their previous care forgotten as they crashed through bushes and into tree limbs. 

"Which way?" Burr cried. His eyes were blinded by dirt and leaves, and the entire forest seemed to spin around them, making him dreadfully dizzy. He could hear the calls of Pinchley to his redcoat friends, and the footfalls of many men behind them, gaining ground. 

Hamilton tugged on the chain that joined them, jerking Burr to the right. "Follow me!" 

As if I have a choice, Burr thought, dazed. In all the chaos, he somehow had the forethought to stuff their retrieved letters into the purloined oilskin. This he shoved down the front of his waistcoat where it had be safer than in his flailing hand, he reasoned. 

He was still looking down into his waistcoat when Hamilton stopped short, nearly causing Burr to run straight into his back. "What are you doing?" he demanded, swiping Hamilton's sweaty hair out of his eyes where it had stuck. The British voices grew louder behind them.

"Look," Hamilton breathed, and as soon as Burr freed his eyes, he looked down to where Hamilton pointed. He now saw they stood on the edge of a precipice, where the rocks fell away into a sheer drop. A waterfall rushed down the gulf a few yards to their left, pooling in a narrow river below. It seemed to Burr the steepest fall he'd ever known.

"They've gone this way," Pinchley's voice echoed behind them. 

"We must jump," Hamilton said.

"No." Burr dug his toes into the dirt even as Hamilton took several steps backwards, dragging him along. "No, no, no, Alexander, we cannot—" 

There was a determination in Hamilton's eyes that let Burr know the decision had already been made without his input. "The river is deep enough," Hamilton promised.

"How do you know?" he demanded.

Just then a volley of gunfire sounded over their heads in a spray of orange sparks. Burr attempted to duck for cover, but Hamilton clasped their fingers together so that their bound hands were held across their chests. "Run with me. Leap only when we reach the edge. Try to avoid the rocks."

"Avoid the—?" But it was too late: the British guns were firing again, and they were running toward the cliff, and when there was nowhere left to go, Hamilton squeezed his hand so hard Burr thought it would be crushed, and together they jumped into thin air. 

Burr screamed all the way down. 

The world tumbled and spun, all rock, clouds, sky, Hamilton's flapping coat and then—river water, as cold as ice. Burr plunged in feet first, his nose and mouth filling terribly. In the muffled brown world underneath the surface, he blinked his eyes open and perceived Hamilton's coat floating down, down, down. 

Burr's lungs burned for air, but when he struggled toward the sunlight he realized that Hamilton's weight was pulling him to the bottom of the river. Soon it was apparent why: Hamilton was sinking, his eyes closed, his lips parted, a gash on his forehead spilling a lacework of blood into the water. His shackled hand hung limp in its bindings, still very much locked together with Burr. 

Hamilton was drowning. And he was dragging Burr down with him. 

_Oh God, no_ , Burr prayed in watery silence. He looked about their underwater prison and saw a boulder very near, perhaps the same boulder that had dealt Hamilton his injury. Burr planted his heavy boots against its face and pushed off, propelling himself downward so that he could gather Hamilton's limp form in his arms. The pebbled bottom of the river provided another solid surface to use as a kickoff point, and Burr swam toward the surface with the dead weight of Hamilton clutched close. 

A peppering of musket balls pierced the water, and Burr watched as one zoomed past his nose like a deadly little fish. That point of the river was a no-go, then. They'd be dead as soon as the British reloaded their pistols. Thinking quickly, Burr swam downriver, daring to surface only in the relative safety on the far side of a sodden log. He gasped for air as quietly as he could, coughing wetly, and patted his hand against Hamilton's slack and pale cheek. 

"Alexander, wake up," he hissed. 

"They've surely drowned," a redcoat's voice boomed across the falls. Burr prayed and, for once, was heard. A grumble of men's voices was followed by a sharp command, and he listened to the sound of boots moving away, treading on damp leaves and twigs. 

Once he was sure the soldiers were gone, he pulled Hamilton toward the shore and laid him on his back in the pitch dark silt. The man's face was near ghostly now, his lips tinged an awful blue. 

"Alexander, please!" Burr took him by the shoulders and shook as hard as he dared.

Within a moment, Hamilton coughed a mouthful of water from his lips, wheezing for breath. His eyes blinked open and stared up at Burr. 

"Are you well? Can you hear me?" Burr demanded. 

The corner of Hamilton's lips, now turning a fierce rose, lifted weakly. "See? I told you. Nothing to fear." 

Burr heard a loud grinding noise and realized that it was the sound of his own teeth gnashing together. He pursed his lips and shook his head; he was so very exhausted, and Hamilton had drained what was left of his spirit. He collapsed at Hamilton's side, his arms flung upon the bank, forcing Hamilton's right arm to jerk up and across his face in consequence. Together they panted for air and said nothing for a long while. 

Then, once he'd collected himself enough, Burr said, "You are going to get us both killed." 

"I haven't done so yet, to my knowledge," Hamilton rejoined. "The documents, do you possess them still?" 

Burr reached into his sodden waistcoat and pulled out the oilskin packet, which had held nicely and kept the papers safe from the water. He held it aloft for a moment, then replaced it with a grunt. 

"Nicely done, Aaron," Hamilton said. "Everyone will say how brave you are to have stolen them when we are back at camp." 

"I'd rather be alive than brave," Burr shot back. "Is your head still bleeding? I can't be bothered to sit up just yet." 

Hamilton lifted his free left hand to his forehead and examined his fingertips. Even from his spot, Burr could see they were tinged pink with blood. 

"May I use your handkerchief?" Hamilton asked. 

"Use your own," Burr snapped. And so Hamilton did, fishing it from his pocket and pressing it to the sluggish gash while they laid there in the mud, side by side, Burr seething at the predicament. Their shoes and stockings were waterlogged. Their clothes were filthy. They were still chained together and situated—God only knew where. 

" _Now_ may we head back to safe harbor?" Burr asked. "Or is there some other ridiculous adventure you'd like to undertake? Something more dangerous, perhaps involving a lion?" 

"Don't be absurd. There are no lions on these shores."

Burr bit his lip to stifle his scream of frustration. Hamilton was already rising to his feet as if he had not moments ago nearly been killed by his own foolishness. 

"Come, we might make some headway before nightfall if we move with all due speed," he said, tugging at their damned chain. 

Burr followed, gaining his feet slowly, wincing at his protesting muscles. "And when night comes? Are we going to bed down on the forest floor?" 

"Unless you can find a tavern for us, yes, that is exactly what we shall do." Hamilton nodded toward the setting sun, that golden half-circle just above the treeline. "This way, I think."

They walked some distance, but not a very great one, hampered as they were by their wet shoes, their aching bodies, and their inability to walk well in tandem. One was constantly attempting to take the lead, which put the other in the ignoble position of being dragged behind the leader; the second man would overtake the first, and the cycle would continue, tinged by grumbles and not a few light shoves. 

"I cannot walk anymore tonight," Burr declared after tripping over a stone for the fourth time in as many minutes. "Hamilton, please, let us rest. Even you must be exhausted."

Hamilton turned to stare at him, his eyes red and wild, his damp hair an absolute mess down the back of his neck. "If we go but a little further—" 

"—we will be barely any closer to reaching General Washington." Burr gestured to the patch of sky they could see above their heads through the tree branches. "You perceive the stars? They are coming out, for it is nearly night. Soon it will be so dark we will not be able to see our hands in front of our faces."

Hamilton looked about the small clearing in which they had found themselves standing. "I suppose we might make camp here. Hand me your flint and I will make a small fire."

Burr shook his head. "My flint was in my saddlebag along with my other supplies. Yours?"

"Mine?" Hamilton swallowed. "It is— Well, it is the same with me." 

Providence preserve me, Burr thought, closing his eyes to calm his building rage. "You did not think that perhaps we might benefit from stealing the necessary supplies to survive in the woods? You had us steal _papers_ instead?"

"I didn't know you had nothing of use on your person!"

"Hamilton, you have nothing of use in your entire head!" Burr cried. Above them, a startled bird flew away into the growing darkness, causing the two men to jump a foot from the ground. They shared an uneasy look; their brush with the enemy was still fresh in their minds, a very real fear.

Hamilton cleared his throat and gestured toward the ground with his free hand. "Let us lay down, perhaps here where the vines provide some measure of shelter, and forgo a fire entirely." 

As if they had an alternative. Burr lowered himself to the forest floor, feeling with his hand in the dark and plucking small stones and sharp twigs from the ground to fling them away. At least the ground was not damp, though the dry leaves were thick and smelled of sweet decay. Burr tried to find a comfortable manner in which to sleep while Hamilton did the same. It was no good to lie flat on his back with his arms at his sides, as the chain was not long enough to allow that. Burr attempted to roll on his side, facing away from Hamilton, but the arrangement of their bound hands forced Hamilton to roll, squawking, into Burr's back, where his nose pressed against his spine. 

"My arm will go numb, trapped under you as it is," Hamilton said, his words muffled into the fabric of Burr's coat. 

"How, then?" Burr snapped as they struggled to untangle themselves. He was so tired, and Hamilton's very voice was enough to set his teeth on edge.

Hamilton cast his eyes about their small depression that would serve as their bed. "We might face each other. On our sides."

"Or we might lay head-to-head with our feet pointed in opposite directions," Burr countered. "Would that not be more pleasant?"

"And what, pray tell, is so unpleasant about facing me?" Hamilton asked.

Burr did not answer with words; a mere raised brow sufficed. 

"Your feelings about my face aside," Hamilton scoffed, "it would be better to sleep close. There is a chill in the night air, and with our wet clothing, it would be wise to hoard any possible warmth."

"I perceive no chill," Burr said, though it was stubbornness that caused him to assert this. There was, in fact, a slight breeze but he saw no reason to cede this ground, so to speak, to Hamilton, who had already decided almost everything since their ordeal had begun. 

Yet Hamilton did not flag as Burr did, and as their argument went around and around, Burr found himself yawning into the crook of his elbow and, at last, relinquishing the decision with a huff. And so they lay close on their rough bed of leaves, their hands folded in the small space between them. Hamilton's fingers curled into loose fists, and he stared across at Burr in the dark, his long lashes fluttering as sleep finally took hold of him. 

"Thank you," he murmured, "for not letting me drown today."

Burr fought the urge to roll his eyes. "I couldn't very well drag your corpse along behind me all the way back to camp, now could I?" He paused. "That is, I'm sure it would be too inconvenient to attempt."

Hamilton's lips curled into a wry smile. "Very true. Sleep well, Aaron." 

"Good night, Alexander," Burr grunted in return, and very soon fell into an exhausted slumber.

He awoke with Hamilton in his arms—and why not? His journey, he thought, had already been so terribly bizarre, so why not this one last bit of madness? He very nearly thrust Hamilton aside as far as their chain would allow, but he soon perceived in the grey light of dawn that the man he held shivered against him. No doubt he'd sought warmth in his sleep, and Burr, in his own, had provided it. For the first time since he'd encountered those redcoats, Burr felt in his chest a feeling of hope: yes, they were hungry, and tired, dirty, thirsty, in need of a blacksmith and a medic, perhaps, and in that order. But they were alive, and they remained together. That was certainly something, was it not? 

He even felt—though he'd deny it with every breath—that in repose, Hamilton was not so horrible a companion. The man was slight enough to fit against him without discomfort, his sleek head tucked to Burr's chest in a way that was almost endearing. It reminded him of their first meeting, and how desperate Hamilton had been to make a friend in his newfound home, and how nice it had felt to be admired. To be needed. 

Burr noticed a twig that had lodged in Hamilton's hair, and he was in the process of freeing it when Hamilton stirred against him. 

"Is it already morning?" Hamilton groaned into his neckcloth, just above the sheaf of documents that were still stowed in his waistcoat. 

"I'm afraid it—" Burr stopped. Froze. His heart thudded in his chest, as heavy as a sack of horseshoes. For he saw, over the top of Hamilton's dark head, a shape lumbering toward them through the bushes. A bear, black as night, slavering in thick white ribbons.

"Just a few minutes more," Hamilton yawned, and burrowed further into Burr's chest. 

"Hamilton—" 

"Let me sleep."

"Hamilton."

"What?" Hamilton raised his head peevishly and finally, _finally_ saw Burr's arrested gaze and followed it, his head turning slowly, until he too saw the bear. "Ah."

" _Ah_? Is that all you have to say?" Burr hissed.

"Well, what would you like me to say?" Hamilton hissed back. They were still very much entwined, Burr noticed. Perhaps even more so, now that they clutched at each other in fear as the bear came closer.

"Should we run? Do we play dead?" 

"I think— We could climb a tree?" Hamilton suggested.

"I know little of bears but I do know they can climb a damned tree," Burr said. "That is practically all bears do!"

"Oh, yes, raise your voice. That's certainly helping."

The bear, quite curious now, rose up on its hind legs and sniffed in their direction. Burr's limbs galvanized into action. "Run," he ordered, and nearly dragged Hamilton behind him in his haste to gain his feet. 

They stumbled, somewhat still half-asleep, away from the bear. Burr looked behind them to ascertain whether the animal followed, and in doing so, did not see that they were running straight into a gully. 

The ground gave way to a sharp incline that was studded with briars and thorns. Burr fell first with Hamilton right behind him, both crying out as they toppled down the gully in the most painful manner. When they finally reached the bottom, Burr landed with a briarpatch directly under the small of his back, and with the full weight of Hamilton atop him, crushing his lungs. 

Hamilton, for his part, lifted his head and squinted up at the precipice they'd just left. "I do not think the bear will deign to follow," he said, panting. "Good work, Burr." 

Burr's entire vision went white in that moment, and any lingering fondness he'd felt for Hamilton's person, vulnerable in sleep, was absolutely dashed. "That is _it_." He pushed Hamilton off himself with some effort, as his arm throbbed in pain from their fall. "I am _done_ with your foolishness!"

"Wha—? What have _I_ done?" Hamilton demanded, eyes now alight with fire. "I did not set a bear on our trail, I'll have you know."

Burr scrambled to his knees, trying to stand, but slipping in some thick mud. This only increased his anger. "No, oh, no. You have merely gotten us lost, starved, dirtied, and almost killed thrice over!"

Hamilton's face was flushed now as he gained his feet. "I saved you from those redcoats! If I hadn't stopped to help you when you fell from your horse—" 

"I didn't _ask you_ to stop!" Burr said, now standing. "You should have kept riding!"

"What, and leave you to face the enemy alone?"

"Yes!" Burr roared. "I would have left you behind if our positions were reversed!" 

Hamilton drew back then as if a snake had struck out at him. "You don't mean that," he said, suddenly quiet. "We are compatriots. Friends. You would never—" 

"I _would_ , Hamilton." He was on the verge of losing his tight control; he could feel his lips pulling back in a sneer, his teeth gnashing. "In a heartbeat, I would do it, and I would think _nothing_ of it. We are not friends. We have never been friends. We agree on nothing, and I do not care to find common ground." Hamilton's face crumpled, but even that display of hurt could not stop Burr. It only spurred him onward, to find more daggers to twist into him. "I find your company barely tolerable at the best of times. In circumstances such as these? Ha! And if I could somehow chew through my own wrist—" He held up his cuffed hand and shook his head, eyes wide and wild. "I would do so. Just to be rid of you and your insufferable words." 

Hamilton blinked down at the ground, his jaw working. Burr's chest heaved as he watched. They stood there in silence for a long moment. 

Finally: "Camp is this way," Hamilton said softly, and moved in the proper direction. 

Burr walked at his side, as dictated by the chain. He thought to apologize for his outburst, which, he could admit, had been unseemly. Yet it had not been completely untrue, so he held his tongue and allowed what he'd said to stand. Even the sight of Hamilton, throat working as he stared straight ahead to avoid Burr's gaze, did not sway him, though it was a near thing.

They walked for hours in the maze of the forest in complete silence. Neither of them spoke at all. Everything they did was negotiated wordlessly: Burr stooped to cup a palmful of water from a stream, and Hamilton did the same; Hamilton paused to make water against a tree and Burr waited politely for his own turn. They went on like this until well past midday, when a contingent of Continentals found them wandering onto the road and gave them the challenge question. They shouted "To the Vatican!" in tandem, both their voices rough with a day's disuse. 

Their fellow soldiers let them ride the short distance back to camp in their supply cart. Salvation was not as sweet as Burr had imagined. There were no banners or celebrations for their arrival. No one appeared to have noted their delay with any true concern, for no one showed any surprise at their being alive. They were given bread and some rum, and shown to a smith who struck the manacles from their wrists with only minor burns left behind.

Once they were freed from the cuffs, they stood on opposite sides of the smith's anvil for a moment, rubbing at their tender wrists. Burr opened his mouth to say something—a suggestion, perhaps, that they report directly to General Washington with their stolen papers—but Hamilton did not stay. He turned and walked from the smithy with his shoulders slumped in an uncharacteristic show of defeat. 

"Hamilton," Burr called, but Hamilton acted as if he had not heard, and disappeared into the thicket of tents. 

So he would report to Washington by himself. The prospect of doing so gave Burr pause, for he had always received the impression that the Great Man did not like him very much. Yet there was a job still to do, and he would do it. 

He was allowed a brief moment with a basin of water and a razor, and also a stack of clean clothing, delivered by Colonel Laurens. Burr thanked him and asked, "Is Hamilton…?" But Laurens only cast a hard look at him before stalking away through the tent flap, leaving him to make his toilet. 

General Washington received him in the tavern that currently served as his headquarters, in a stuffy back room bereft of windows. He was seated behind a desk that was much too small for a man of his size. Burr thought it might even be a woman's writing desk, a notion which made the corner of his lips quiver. 

Washington did not look up from the stack of papers he was currently engaged in signing. "The men who returned you to camp have imparted quite a tale," he murmured. "Let us see if your story can match theirs, Colonel." 

Burr placed his oilskin on the corner of the General's minute desk and stepped back to stand at attention. He made his report in simple terms, doing his level best not to exaggerate the facts. The bulk of his time was spent describing the redcoats, their paltry supplies, and the manner in which he and Hamilton had been restrained. He took special care to point out the stolen documents in the oilskin that he hoped might be of some use.

Washington, who had listened in silence up to this point with the tip of his forefinger resting in the divot above his upper lip, finally spoke: "You and Hamilton must make a fine team, Colonel Burr. How could it be otherwise, if the two of you were shackled together as you describe? And yet, he is not here to share in your report?"

Burr licked his dry lips. "Well, sir, I'm afraid that Colonel Hamilton and I did not—" He stopped and tried to marshal his words. "We did not work together quite so well as one might hope, given the circumstances." 

"Is Hamilton injured? Is that why he does not appear?" Washington asked.

"Not to my knowledge, Your Excellency. Although." Burr swallowed. He could admit his failings; besides, Hamilton would undoubtedly spill the whole story if asked by his General, and so it would be better to tell it himself. "I may have...said some things to injure his pride. I doubt he wishes to be anywhere near me, especially after what we've endured."

"I see." Washington pushed back from his tiny writing desk and stood, crossing to the mantle to find another pot of ink. He glanced up, brows lifting as if surprised to see Burr still standing there. "Is there anything else, Colonel?" 

"No, sir." Burr hesitated, then plunged forward. "I only hope Colonel Hamilton understands the severe stresses that caused me to say such poisonous things. I would never normally— As a gentleman, that is—" 

"Colonel Burr," Washington sighed, "would you like me to share some hard-won advice with you?" 

Burr fought to hide his surprise. "Certainly, sir." 

Ink found, the General returned to his chair and began cutting himself a new quill. "It is my experience that you cannot force goodwill and camaraderie between two people by mere proximity. There are those that say, 'Oh, toss them in a room and lock the door! They will see eye to eye eventually.'" He stopped cutting long enough to point his penknife in Burr's direction. "These people are fools. You cannot conjure what does not already exist. You must instead tend to the seeds that are already laid. Do you understand?"

Burr blinked. "I believe so, sir."

Washington dipped his new quill into his fresh ink. "Laurens tells me that Hamilton has been exceedingly quiet since returning from your ordeal. You must have said something very powerful indeed to have stopped _that_ tongue." 

Shame washed through Burr as hot and uncomfortable as metal in the sun. "Anything else, sir?" he asked. Funny, he thought, how he wanted so badly for his audience with the General to end when before he would have relished capturing his attention. 

"If you are truly discomfited with how things were left with Hamilton, do as I say: tend the seeds. Do not offer weak apologies; Hamilton is the sort that sees right through that. I should know." He shook his head and bent over his papers once more. "We have exchanged words often enough."

"You have, sir?" Burr could not fathom anyone, even someone as brash as Hamilton, purposefully needling General Washington into an argument and then rejecting his apology.

"Oh, yes. He has a talent for it, does he not?" Washington looked up at him briefly, and for the very first time, Burr glimpsed the man, not the General, a man of some good humor. "Riling the most even temper? Upsetting the coolest head?"

Burr swallowed. "Indeed he does, sir."

"Go. I will have my spymasters review your documents. New orders will be yours by morning." Washington turned back to his work, and Burr found himself effectively dismissed.

Night was falling over the countryside. Campfires dotted the rolling hills, and Burr found himself walking from one to another, inquiring at each where he might find Hamilton. This led him at last to Laurens and Lafayette, who were sharing a tot of rum beside their own fire, and pointedly did not offer him a sip when he approached. They did, however, tell him that Hamilton might be found in his tent, where he had been sequestered all evening, writing. 

"If you wish to hurl more abuse at him," Lafayette said with a sniff, "you might wait until after breakfast, when at least you'll both have more strength." 

Burr ignored him and sought out Hamilton's tent. He found it, a small, cramped thing that was not very well-situated, and inside, bent over his furious scribbles, was Hamilton. He looked even more exhausted than before, though his hair had been washed and his clothing freshened. Burr stood at the tent flap and watched him work for nearly a minute before clearing his throat. 

Hamilton did not look up. "I have no time for friends at the moment, let alone passing acquaintances who would leave me for dead when convenient."

"Do you have time, then, for a colleague?" Burr asked. 

That was enough to intrigue Hamilton. He looked up at last. Placed his quill in his inkpot. Frowned. "In what discipline?" he asked. 

Burr gave a small shrug. He had considered what seeds he should be coaxing to grow, and these seemed the most likely to bear fruit. "General Washington has said his spymasters will be tasked with the documents we stole. I thought, perhaps…."

Hamilton barked a laugh. "Those dolts couldn't decipher their way through a children's story," he said. 

"I agree. We might offer our services. That is, if you are not about some other business?" 

Hamilton's eyes sparked with eagerness, but that light faded as he looked at Burr. "Have we not spent enough time in each other's company for one day?" he asked. 

"I have spent enough time chained to you to last a lifetime," Burr said. "Now that I can leave your side to piss, I think I might find your company almost...passable." 

Hamilton laughed at that. "Why, Mr. Burr, that may be the greatest compliment you've ever paid me."

"Don't expect many more," Burr grumbled, but good-naturedly, with his lips tugging upward. 

They walked toward headquarters together, a strange pair: Burr silent and smooth on the right, his hands clasped behind his back; Hamilton small and rumpled on the left, his hands gesturing wildly as he spoke. 

"Allow me to make our case to the General," he said. "I have exactly the correct arguments in mind."

"Just do not go on too long," Burr said with a sideways glance. "I will interrupt you if I think it necessary."

"Ah, but it won't be," Hamilton promised.

"I certainly hope not," Burr said, and smiled unseen in the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed my Hamilton version of That One Episode of Hey Dude.


End file.
